Wasteland of flint

The refinery captain swore to himself, peering around the corner into the H-port-side hallway. A round dozen crewmen were at his side, most armed with sidearms or beam cutters, though none of them were in armor. The passageway ahead was entirely choked with clinging black smoke. There was no sign of the tanglewire blocking crossway 78.

Ketcham grabbed the nearest shift leader. 'Termovich, send a runner to get me a handheld. We need plans of this level and all the rooms. Leave two men forward here on watch and then fall back a frame – and send someone else to get pressure masks or even z-suits if they can find them.'

Men melted away from the gang of miners, eager to make themselves useful and get away from the sound of the guns. Ketcham ran a hand through thick blond hair, thinking furiously. He figured they'd already exhausted the day's ration of luck by having him within shouting distance of the firefight when it started. Hardly anyone else aboard had any military experience, though you couldn't deny they were game for a fight.

'No heavy weapons inside,' he muttered, 'barely anything like combat armor. Miners, technicians, shuttle pilots… Termovich, where's the nearest emergency engineering panel?'

'Back two frames, sir.' The Novoya Rossiyan looked scared to death, which only mirrored Ketcham's own gut- twisting fear. Someone – Company mercenaries? Pirates? – had entered his ship undetected, in combat suits and armed to the teeth. Tanglewire and RSM rounds didn't come cheap. But what could they want? To steal the whole ship? Why sneak aboard?

'Get over there right now and drop the bulkheads all round this section and on the level above and below. We'll seal 'em off.'

Captain Ketcham? An unknown, unfamiliar voice intruded. Ketcham started and stared around before realizing the voice was coming from his earbug. There is no reason for further conflict.

'Who the hell is this?' Ketcham's bellow caught Termovich by surprise, but the Rossiyan bolted away from the captain's volcanic glare. 'Identify yourself!'

Chu-sa Mitsuharu Hadeishi, IMN Cornuelle, at your service.

'Fleet?' Ketcham's voice choked in astonishment. Then his brain – which seemed to have stumbled into tar – kicked into gear. He slapped his comm unit, scrambling the channel. 'Override six-twenty-six,' he shouted, desperate for even ten seconds of clear air. 'Bridge, this is Ketcham. A Fleet Marine assault team has entered the ship. Lockdown all levels and accessways, seal the bridge and -'

None of this is necessary, Captain Ketcham. I need to speak with you directly, but I mean you, your ship and your men no harm. The quiet, reasonable voice had cooled slightly.

Ketcham found his sidearm in his hand – a silver-chased Webley 220 with an over-and-under magazine – and reflexively cycled a round into the firing chamber. The safety unlocked and the see-through-shoot-through sight activated. The board of directors had presented the pistol to him last year, a custom model from Toporosky and Sons gunsmiths. A small token of appreciation for four years of profitable service. A corner of his mind – a part long neglected, but not entirely atrophied from disuse – calculated he would need to be within fifteen meters for the depleted uranium rounds to penetrate a Fleet combat suit.

'You've killed three of my men already,' he growled into the comm. 'My ship is on fire. You're not making yourself welcome!'

If any of your men died, Captain, I apologize. My Marines have been firing solely RSM and knockdown rounds. I admit an eyesocket hit might kill a man, but that is not our intent.

'What do you want?' Ketcham stared down the back corridor, silently pleading for Termovich to hurry or the bridge to react to his override command. To his great relief, a distant banging sound echoed down the hallway and the lights flickered. The fire alarm cut off and was replaced by the shrill honking of a ship-wide red alert. 'Finally!'

I am coming out into the hallway, the voice said, apparently unaware of the bulkheads sliding closed amid flashing lights and the drone of the alarms. I will be unarmed. There is a matter we must discuss. Tell your men to hold fire.

'What?' Ketcham turned, surprised. 'What did you say?'

'This is necessary,' Hadeishi said to Felix, gently moving the Marine aside. The heicho looked gut-shot, speechless, alarmed, and outraged all at once. The chu-sa drew his sidearm and spun the gun round so the barrel was firmly in hand. 'Susan, status please?'

We're going to lose hardline, she replied, her voice sounding as tense as Felix looked. The bulkhead doors are dropping all over the ship. The line might handle one kink, but not sixteen.

'Alternate comm?' Hadeishi stepped to the door of the compartment and pressed the access plate. The door did not move. The chu-sa frowned, realizing the puncture alert had sealed all of the compartment doors even as the bulkheads in the pressure frames were coming down. He looked sideways at Maratay and raised an eyebrow. The Marine jumped as if struck across the face and rushed to swipe cutting gel around the doorframe.

Smith has a hunter loose in their system. I'll let you know when – sqqqwk!

'The hardline is down.' Hadeishi turned away from the door, clasping his hands behind his head. Gel volatilized in a rippling streak of fire. Debris rained against Mitsu's suit and smoke coiled past. 'Heicho Felix, deploy to hold this block of rooms. The Cornuelle will attempt to restore communications through alternate means. No one – no one – is to open fire without my express order, no matter what happens outside.'

The woman nodded, nervously cycling the Whipsaw into firing position.

Hadeishi stepped through the opening into a hallway choked with smoke. The refraction grenade's payload had mostly settled from the air, leaving the floor covered with drifts of shiny metallic glitter. There was fire suppression foam everywhere, dripping from the walls and pooling on the ground. The smoke itself was separating out into oily layers as he walked out into the middle of the cross-corridor and emerged from the fog into sight of the miners.

One of the miners squeaked like a startled rat and his beam-pistol flared. Hadeishi was facing the weapon straight on, his hands wide, his sidearm extended on his middle finger. He saw a discharge corona blossom in the microsecond before his visor polarized and felt the beam glance from his left shoulder.

The snap of the ionizing beam rocked the hallway. Hadeishi staggered, nearly thrown down by the hit. A section of articulated armor plating on his shoulder glowed white hot for a moment, then the surface ablated away, shedding shell-like layers of composite destroyed by the beam. Suit chillers kicked in, bleeding away the heat, and the molten spot began to fade.

'I am unarmed,' he announced, voice echoing from the suit's speaker, and tossed the sidearm to the floor. The gun made a clanking sound – very loud in the sudden, shocked silence – and fell over on its side. 'I need to speak with Captain Ketcham urgently.'

One of the men in the crowd – flattened against the wall, watching him over the muzzle of a massive handgun – twitched and Hadeishi turned slightly to face him. The man – the captain, Mitsu realized, spying rank decorations on a dark-blue uniform with red and gold piping – was tall and broad, easily a foot taller than the Nisei, with wavy blond hair and deep-set, narrowed blue eyes.

The very image of our ancient enemy, Hadeishi thought, continuing to walk forward.

'Stop right there!' Ketcham moved forward, the miners around him – most of them technicians and machine operators, if Mitsu was any judge of their work clothing and departmental insignia – shrinking back to make way. The gun centered on his breast did not waver. 'I'll accept your surrender, Nisei, and we can discuss whatever you want once you're in the brig.'

Mitsu shook his head. 'Captain, the Imperial Navy does not surrender. You should remember the oath you swore at Academy -'

Ketcham's face twisted in a foul, ugly snarl of rage. His finger twitched on the trigger of the Webley and there was a deafening crack as the gun discharged in a gout of expelled gas. Hadeishi tried to throw himself aside, but the flechette round had already broken into a dozen supersonic splinters and at least four smashed into his chest, flinging him around like a broken doll.